


Heiwa

by oninoshirosaki



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki/pseuds/oninoshirosaki





	Heiwa

Peace no longer existed.

The world - _their_ world, really, although it was hard to remember there was _another_ outside the one they lived in - was built upon the foundations of murder, revenge, deceit, and betrayal. Carnage under the guise of _duty_ was a daily affair - the bloodstains which marred his previously impeccable suit was irrefutable proof of that. 

_Protect your Family. Duty. Honor._ The line between lies and truth had long since been blurred. He killed for what his Boss - his _Family_ \- decided was good enough reason, or sometimes, no reason at all. 

Yamamoto knew that Tsuna wasn't unreasonable - that he treasured peace above all else. But this _wasn't_ about Tsuna anymore; it was about the Vongola as a whole. Sometimes, the only solution was to kill. And Yamamoto - ever loyal and ever protective of those he cared about - would do what was asked, even if what was asked wasn't always _right._

His wearied feet guided him towards the kitchen. He desperately needed a drink. _Right. Fucking. **Now.**_

The wooden cabinet overhead was swiftly opened and Yamamoto reached for whatever was closest, not even bothering to really _look._ Deciding that cooling off a little might do him some good, he reached for the ice tray in the freezer; only to discover that it contained nothing but a single ice cube.

He would have been mad - _another shitty thing to add to his already shitty day_ \- but he was too worn out to care. He dumped the lone cube into his glass - it looked _pathetic,_ really; strangely appropriate in this dreary, bleak world they called _home_ \- and emptied the last of the whiskey over it. 

Yamamoto proceeded to refill the ice tray - Squalo was always bad about things like that - before returning it to its spot in the freezer. He took a long swig of his drink without actually tasting it - he didn't even _like_ whiskey, anyway - and leaned his solid, muscular back against the refrigerator's cool surface. He pressed his glass against his forehead in a ridiculous attempt to calm his fatigued brain, releasing a long sigh.

Yamamoto Takeshi _had_ known peace once.

Peace was baseball and sushi-making lessons from his father. It was study sessions at the Sawada household and impromptu cooking contests with Bianchi. 

It was one-sided arguments with Gokudera or teaching Tsuna how to swim. It was watching the fireworks in the summer and having snowball fights in the winter. 

Peace was random explosions followed by yells of panic, outrage, or excitement - sometimes all of the above.

It was nonsensical, childish games with Lambo and I-Pin, or hitting a home run to the enthusiastic roar of a crowd-filled stadium.

Peace was believing that life was just one big game. 

It was a time when the Rain was nothing more than part of the weather. A time when his innocence and naivety would not get him rapidly killed. 

Yamamoto wondered if he'd ever see that time again. He somehow doubted very much that he would.

\--

The bedroom light was on - he could see it through the crack under the door, dimly illuminating the darkened floor beneath his feet. Yamamoto stood outside for a long minute - trying, and _failing,_ to sort out his muddled mess of thoughts - before turning the handle and entering his room. 

Squalo was fast asleep on the bed, lying on his side and snoring loudly. His slumber had obviously been unintentional - the fact that he was situated atop the covers, still decked out in that strange combination of black and beige fur and leather that made up his uniform said as much.

Yamamoto padded silently across the room, unslinging his katana sheath from his shoulder. He rested it against the nightstand before seating himself at the edge of the king-sized bed. 

His deep chocolate eyes wandered freely over his lover - drinking in the seemingly endless streams of white hair, the tiny frown that creased his pale forehead, the part of his mouth from which rumbled such harsh breaths, over the slight hunch of his shoulders and his long, bony frame, down to his legs, feet still encased in filthy, well-worn boots. 

Squalo looked different when he slept. Oh, he was still noisy and he still radiated that threatening _don't fuck with me_ aura, even when he wasn't _doing_ anything. But there was a kind of _vulnerability_ in his face - one that made him look much younger than he really was and that stood starkly in contrast with the cold-blooded assassin he unquestionably _was_ underneath.

It was - Yamamoto supposed - what he liked best about his crass, irascible lover. 

Squalo would never admit it, of course, nor would he ever display it in front of his enemies or the Vongola or - God forbid - _Xanxus,_ but that didn't mean it wasn't _there._

It was more than just _one_ thing, really. Beneath all that reckless aggression and melodramatic bravado were fears and worries, weaknesses and moments of self-doubt - things that weren't necessarily _bad_ all the time; they only served to prove that Squalo was _human,_ and not the kind of emotionally-repressed killing machine the assassins were often _expected_ to be.

He wasn't fearless, and he sure as shit wasn't invincible or _perfect._ It was the fact that Squalo - instead of ignoring them - _acknowledged_ his insecurities and faced them head on, always rising no matter how many times he was beaten down, that made Yamamoto respect him. 

And it was the fact that he - instead of hiding them - let his guard down enough to share every shred of weakness, strength, and his own brand of madness that was so uniquely _Squalo_ with such raw honesty and unwavering trust that made Yamamoto inevitably _love_ him. 

Yamamoto reached out, gently running his fingers through soft ivory strands before leaning forward and pressing his lips tenderly against the crown of Squalo's hair, inhaling deeply. 

Peace no longer existed. This was the best they had. 

But somehow - _somehow_ \- Yamamoto knew they were going to be okay.


End file.
